


Tend to Psych You Out in the End

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Psych Fusion, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fake Psychic Abilities, Fluff, Gun Violence, Injury, Kidnapping, M/M, Police, fluff and nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1429342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Psych</em> AU. When Courfeyrac announces to Combeferre that the police think he's a psychic, it's honestly not the strangest thing he's ever said, but it's probably going to get them both into a lot of trouble. Especially since their first case is investigating the kidnapping of the wealthy Enjolras family's only son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tend to Psych You Out in the End

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this beyond an abiding love for Psych and a desire for hijinks.
> 
> Based loosely on the series premiere, so no knowledge of the show is needed.
> 
> Usual disclaimer - I own nothing.

“I have a job for you!” Courfeyrac announced loudly, bursting through Combeferre’s door without knocking. He didn’t need to knock — or at least, assumed he didn’t, since the two had been best friends since childhood. And besides, it wasn’t as if what Combeferre was doing was  _important_. He assumed, anyway.

Combeferre glanced up from his computer at Courferyac, and then glanced exaggeratedly around his office. “I have a job,” he informed him, dryly. “I know the concept of a permanent, well-paying job escapes  _you_ , but…”

Rolling his eyes, Courfeyrac sat in the chair across from Combeferre’s desk, leaning back to prop his feet up on the desk. “Yeah, because just what I want to do with my life is work a dead-end office job because I couldn’t get hired as a professor after getting my Ph.D. Uh, pass, thanks.” Combeferre made a face, but didn’t — couldn’t — deny it, and Courfeyrac barreled on. “Besides, I’m not talking about just  _a_  job, I am talking about  _the_  job, the thing we’ve been dreaming of doing since we were eight, the last job either you or I will ever need! All you have to do is come with me.”

Combeferre snorted loudly. “Uh, no. I’m never doing anything blindly with you again. I learned that lesson at the Mexican border — twice.”

Though Courfeyrac blushed slightly, he said firmly, “You know that the first time did  _not_  count. How was I supposed to know what that guy had put in the piñatas?”

“Anyway,” Combeferre continued, as if Courfeyrac had not spoken, “Like I said, I  _have_  a job. And you have had, what, fifty since graduating from law school? Why is this one any different?”

Courfeyrac heaved a sigh as if explaining this was completely unnecessary. “Fine, this may be a little hard to explain, but I’m gonna give it a shot — you and I are opening our own private detective agency!”

Combeferre stared up at Courfeyrac, his expression blank. “Oh,” he said, shortly. “See? No explanation needed. Let me get my coat.”

Courfeyrac beamed at him, though his beam faded when Combeferre did not actually stand up to grab his coat, and Courfeyrac said slowly, “…But you’re not getting your coat.”

“Um, no. No, Courf, I’m not.”

Now Courfeyrac rolled his eyes so hard that his head practically rolled along with them. “Fine, you want all the unimportant details? The cops think I’m a psychic and now we’re investigating a kidnapping. Happy now?”

Combeferre gaped at him. “The cops think you’re a  _psychic_?” he repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said, waving his hand as if it wasn’t a big deal. “You know how sometimes I call in tips when I see something on the news that the police miss because of my freakish observation skills? Well, this hard-ass detective, Javert, was completely convinced that I committed this crime so he hauled me in for questioning with his surprisingly attractive co-detective, Valjean.”

Combeferre sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Let me guess, you flirted with this Valjean?”

“Well, yeah, before I realized the two of them were sleeping together. Man, Javert was pissed when I pointed that out.”

Now Combeferre massaged his temples with vigor. “And let me guess, you also tried flirting with this Javert?”

Courfeyrac said loudly, “That’s not the point, now is it? The point is, I managed to convince them that the reason I submitted those tips is because I’m a psychic. I mean, you know that’s not true, and I know that’s not true, but again, that’s not the point. I’ve been able to solve police cases this entire time, and aren’t you the one who’s always talking about using one’s skills for the greater good?”

Combeferre still looked skeptical, but he shrugged and asked, “And you said you got a case?”

Grinning as if Combeferre had already agreed to help him, Courfeyrac told him, “That’s right. Chief Chabouillet gave it to me himself. You know the Enjolras family?” Combeferre looked surprised, and nodded. “Of course you do. The Enjolrases are one of the wealthiest families on the West Coast. Anyway, their only son, Enjolras Jr., has been kidnapped, and the kidnappers demanded a ransom, which was paid, but Enjolras was never returned. And if you’re in, we’re supposed to head straight to the Enjolras house and see what we can find — or what my psychic powers can deduce. So…” He gave Combeferre his most roguishly charming grin. “Are you in?”

Sighing heavily, Combeferre stood up. “God help me, Courfeyrac,” he grumbled, as Courfeyrac practically leapt out of his chair to follow Combeferre out of his office, grinning.

* * *

 

As they approached the Enjolras house, Combeferre warned Courfeyrac, “Don’t tell them that you’re a psychic when you introduce yourself. Pick something vague, like ‘Alternative Tactics Division’.”

Courfeyrac winked at him as they rang the doorbell. “How about the Bureau of Magic and Spell Casting?” Combeferre scowled at him, but Courfeyrac was too busy shaking the hand of the man who rang the doorbell. “Mr. Enjolras, I assume? My name is Courfeyrac, Consulting Psychic with the Santa Barbara Police Department, and this is my assistant, Ferris Coombs.”

Combeferre elbowed Courfeyrac in the ribs, his scowl turning into a glare, and Mr. Enjolras glanced between the two of them. “Ah. Yes. The police warned that you might be coming by. Come in, please.”

He stepped back and Combeferre and Courfeyrac followed him into the mansion, looking around at the immaculate entrance, and Courfeyrac whistled under his breath. Mr. Enjolras smiled tightly at them, though he looked tired and stressed. “To tell you the truth gentlemen, I’m not sure what you’ll be able to do that the police haven’t.”

Glancing over at Courfeyrac, Combeferre muttered, “What exactly will we be able to tell him that the police haven’t?”

Courfeyrac, however, smiled at Mr. Enjolras. “If you’ll take us to your son’s room, we might be able to pick up on some, uh, latent vibrations that may give a clue to your son’s whereabouts.”

Mr. Enjolras inclined his head and lead them upstairs, and Combeferre nudged Courfeyrac. “That was a nice one.”

“Always with the tone of surprise,” Courfeyrac sighed, though he winked at Combeferre. He also glanced at the walls as they climbed the stairs, at pictures of the curly-haired boy who could only have been a younger Enjolras Jr. As they went up, the pictures got older, and Enjolras’s expression got surlier, though the pictures stopped abruptly, despite there being a few feet left of space and despite Enjolras only looking about sixteen in the final picture. “How old is your son?” Courfeyrac asked, curious.

Mr. Enjolras glanced at the final picture and then away just as quickly. “He just turned twenty-two,” he said heavily. “He graduated from college in May and was home for the summer before starting in law school in the school.” Then he cleared his throat and jerked his head down the hallway. “Enjolras’s room is the last one on the right.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged glances before Combeferre asked, “You refer to your son by your surname?”

“Enjolras has insisted on being called that since he was a boy,” Mr. Enjolras said, shrugging. “It’s a peculiar quirk, I’ll grant you, but my wife and I begrudged our boy nothing growing up, including indulging his idiosyncrasies. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on my wife. She’s not been well since this began.”

He nodded at both of them before disappearing back downstairs, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac headed to the bedroom Mr. Enjolras had pointed out, stopping in their tracks as soon as they got inside. “Holy shit,” Courfeyrac said, looking around. “If you had known this kid, you would have  _hated_  him. He’d have beat you out for  _everything_.”

The room was full of medals and trophies, almost like a shrine to Enjolras’s achievements, and Combeferre scowled at Courfeyrac as he took a few steps into the room. “I would not have hated him,” he said haughtily. “He and I probably would have been best friends, in fact. Better friends, even, than you and I.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Yeah, ok, like  _that’s_  possible.” He stepped over to one of the shelves and looked closely at the trophies, all of which — on that shelf, at least — appeared to be for speech team. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” Combeferre asked from where he was examining a series of Geography Bee trophies.

“All of these trophies…they all stop when Enjolras turned sixteen. Just like with the pictures in the stairway.” Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at Combeferre. “Ten bucks says that Enjolras’s relationship with his parents took a turn for the worse when he was sixteen.”

Combeferre shook his head. “Anyone could see that,” he shot back. “Including the police. Meaning that this isn’t exactly helping our so-called investigation.”

Courfeyrac wandered towards Enjolras’s desk. “Always a naysayer, aren’t you?” he murmured, flipping through some of the papers on the desk and stopping when he got to a brochure. “Wait a minute. Tell me, does Enjolras strike you as an outdoorsy kind of guy?”

Combeferre looked up from the first place trophy for the national debating championship that he was holding. “Um. Not really. Why?”

Courfeyrac held up the brochure he found. “I’ve got a brochure for a state park, one not too far from here. So if Enjolras didn’t frequent the outdoors, why would he have a brochure for a state park?” He grinned at Combeferre. “Is it too early for me to have a theory?”

“Can you at least wait until we’ve found more evidence than a park brochure?” Combeferre asked, though it was more of a resigned sigh than anything.

Though Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, he was still triumphant as they went back downstairs to ask Mr. Enjolras a few follow-up questions. “I’m sensing something,” Courfeyrac announced, holding his hand up to his temple, and squinting as if seeing something the others could not. “Trees and lakes and campgrounds…Tell me, did your son like the outdoors?”

Mr. Enjolras looked at them as if they were both crazy. “Goodness, no,” he laughed, a little dryly. “I spent years trying to convince the boy to come fishing or at least golfing with me, but Enjolras would always rather stay indoors and read or plan or what it is he does holed up in his room all day. Did you find something related to the outdoors?”

“No,” Courfeyrac said, quickly. “Just this, uh, vague vibe. As if your son had been outside recently. It could be anything.” He smiled disarmingly at Mr. Enjolras. “Thank you for your help. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

As soon as they were back to Combeferre’s car, Courfeyrac said excitedly, “I don’t think Enjolras was kidnapped at all.”

Combeferre glanced over at him. “What?”

“Pay attention, Ferre! Enjolras didn’t like being outside but had a brochure for a state park. Why? Because he ran away.”

“And, what, extorted his own parents for money?” Combeferre snorted and shook his head. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “But that’s exactly it,” he insisted. “Enjolras had a falling out with his parents years ago. Maybe they threatened to cut him off from his inheritance. Or maybe he just wanted to be free from them once and for all. But either way, Enjolras Jr. was  _not_  kidnapped.”

Combeferre shook his head again. “That’s a fascinating theory, but it’s missing something important: proof.”

Courfeyrac crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And  _that_  is where the state park comes in. Once we get there, we’ll find all the proof that we need.”

* * *

 

Once they got there, they didn’t find any of the proof that they needed. In fact, the park ranger they spoke to said that no one had been using the campgrounds for the past week. Combeferre sighed and nodded, ready to give up, but Courfeyrac shook his head, determined. “Are there any cabins, or any other place where someone could stay?”

“Well, sure,” the park ranger said, surprised. “There’s cabins on the other side of the lake. But they’re private property.”

Combeferre exchanged a glance with Courfeyrac before asking politely, “Do you know if there’s a record of who each cabin belongs to?”

The park ranger laughed. “Oh, they’re not owned by individuals. They’re all owned by one family: the Grantaires.”

Back in the car, Courfeyrac mused, “The Grantaires…I know that name.”

Combeferre snorted. “As you should. Grantaire Sr. is a ruthless media mogul. He owns half the newspapers in California. And if I recall correctly, his youngest son is about Enjolras’s age.”

“Well you know what that means!” Courfeyrac said, enthusiastically, and Combeferre sighed.

“I assume we’re headed back to the Enjolras mansion?”

Courfeyrac beamed at him. “We’re headed back to the Enjolras mansion!”

* * *

 

“Certainly we know the Grantaire family,” Mr. Enjolras said, surprised. “They’ve been friends of the family for, well, for quite some time. And Enjolras used to be quite close with their youngest son, R.”

“R?” Courfeyrac repeated. “They named their son after a letter?”

Combeferre coughed lightly and told him under his breath, “It’s a pun on his surname. Grantaire in French is pronounced similarly to how they would say capital R.”

Courfeyrac waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve heard it both ways.” He looked back at Mr. Enjolras. “So your son and R used to be friends? What happened between them?”

Mr. Enjolras shrugged. “They had a falling out, back in high school. Right before Enjolras left for college, in fact. I don’t think they’ve spoken since.” He smiled at both of them. “Sorry that I couldn’t be more help.”

And with that, he closed the door in their faces. Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre. “I don’t believe that for a moment,” he scoffed.

“For once, I agree with you,” Combeferre said, nodding. “There’s got to be more to this story.”

They headed back to the car, and Combeferre ventured, “Should we tell the police about what we’ve learned? About his friendship with Grantaire and the cabins that they own and all of that?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “What is there to tell? You know the police — they want hard evidence. Until we talk to Enjolras and figure out exactly what’s going on, we don’t exactly have a lot to tell them.”

Combeferre sighed as he started the car. “Why do I have a feeling this is going to involve trespassing on private property?” Courfeyrac just grinned at him, and Combeferre sighed again. “Fine, but if you get me arrested — again — you’re the one paying bail this time.”

* * *

 

Thankfully, Courfeyrac at least agreed to wait until the next morning to confront Enjolras and Grantaire, not that it mattered much. Whatever plans they had for creeping onto the Grantaire family property were quickly shattered when Courfeyrac and Combeferre heard a gunshot go off, and they both raced towards the nearest cabin. They opened the door to find Enjolras, not looking particularly different from even his sixteen-year-old self, lying on the ground and bleeding from a gunshot wound to the stomach.

A dark-haired man was cradling him in his arms, tears running down his face, though he looked up when Courfeyrac and Combeferre entered the cabin, panicked. “R?” Courfeyrac guessed, and the man paled.

He quickly stood, and before either could stop him, fled, banging out the back door of the cabin and leaving Courfeyrac and Combeferre behind with Enjolras and the pool of blood that seemed to be growing bigger with every moment. Combeferre said quickly, “I’ll call 9-1-1. You try to talk to Enjolras, keep him calm and stop him from going into shock if you can.”

Courfeyrac quickly knelt next to the man, who reached out unsteadily for him. “Grantaire,” Enjolras groaned, his eyes unfocused.

“No, I’m not Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said, as soothingly as he could managed, letting Enjolras grip his hand. “We both have dark hair, but that’s where the similarities pretty much end, since, you know, I didn’t shoot you.”

Enjolras shook his head slowly. “Not…Grantaire,” he managed, and Courfeyrac frowned slightly.

“Yes, I’m not Grantaire—”

“No!” Enjolras said, harshly, his grip on Courfeyrac’s hand tightening. “It…wasn’t…Grantaire…” His grip loosened and his head lolled back, and Courfeyrac looked up at Combeferre, eyes wide.

“Combeferre…”

Luckily, Combeferre sprung into action, putting pressure on Enjolras’s wound and keeping an eye on his vitals until the ambulance arrived, while Courfeyrac kept vigil, unnaturally quiet as he did, lost in his thoughts.

The police arrived just after the ambulance did, and Javert said dismissively when he saw Courfeyrac and Combeferre, “You may as well go home, boys. This case is solved. Grantaire and Enjolras hatched a scheme to get money from Enjolras’s parents and Grantaire shot him after a fight over that money. Case closed.”

He grinned almost viciously at both of them and walked away to consult with his partner, who did not look nearly as convinced. Courfeyrac turned back to Combeferre, frowning. “I don’t believe that,” he said, his voice low. “Enjolras told me it wasn’t Grantaire.”

“Enjolras had lost a lot of blood and wasn’t in the right state of mind,” Combeferre pointed out. “He could easily have been confused or referring to something else. And if the doctors aren’t able to operate and save him, we may never know what happened.”

Courfeyrac just shook his head, frowning, and his mind flashed back to the moment when he and Combeferre had burst into the cabin, to the way that Grantaire was cradling Enjolras in his arms and crying. “No…” he said, slowly, beginning to put the pieces together. “No, it definitely wasn’t Grantaire. He would never have shot Enjolras.”

Combeferre frowned at him. “How do you know that?”

Courfeyrac shot him a stressed approximation of his usual grin. “Because Enjolras and Grantaire were luv-vahs in the night. They were getting freaky-deaky. They love each other long time. They—”

Combeferre held up his hand. “Yeah. I get the picture.”

“Well, if Grantaire loved Enjolras, why would he have shot him?” Courfeyrac asked, raising an eyebrow at Combeferre, who frowned. “I bet they pretended to kidnap Enjolras so that they could use the money to run away from their families, who must not have approved. My guess is that the reason why the trophies and pictures stop when Enjolras turned sixteen is because that’s when he came out to his parents.”

Combeferre shook his head, looking disgusted. “There’s little I hate more than parents who blatantly stop supporting their child after he or she or they come out,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Courfeyrac made a face as well. “Yeah. I agree. Completely. But you know what this means?” Combeferre shook his head, and Courfeyrac grinned. “This means that the only person who stood to lose something by Enjolras running away with his boyfriend was his father. Mr. Enjolras would lose not only the money from the kidnapping but prestige and social standing when it came out what had happened. So who else would have motivation to put an end to things?”

Though Combeferre nodded in understanding, he still looked skeptical. “Even if that’s true, even if all of this is true, you can’t just go accusing one of the most powerful businessmen on the west coast of attempted murder, especially of his own son.”

* * *

 

Of course, Courfeyrac did just that, though he at least had the courtesy to wait a few hours for Enjolras to get out of surgery.

He burst into the hospital room where Enjolras, who was now in a medically-induced coma, was staying, and told Mr. Enjolras, sitting next to his son’s bed, in a loud voice, “I have had a vision from Enjolras, from beyond the grave!” He glanced at the still body and the steadily-beeping heart monitor and amended his statement. “Or at least, from beyond the coma. Enjolras has told me that it was you who shot him — you, his very own father!” He pointed dramatically at Mr. Enjolras, who looked more taken aback than anything. ‘I mean, that’s some fucked up Darth Vader shit, man, trying to kill your own son. And just because he was gay and wanted to run away with his lover.”

Enjolras Sr. stood, his expression fierce, and he told Courfeyrac coolly, “It would take some work to make me the shooter of my own son, since about fifty people can confirm that I left town for a business meeting on my company’s jet not even ten minutes after you left our house the second time. I was on my way back when we got the news that Enjolras…that Enjolras…”

He trailed off, choked up, and reached for his son’s hand. “Besides,” he added, his voice thick with unshed tears, “I had no issue with my son’s sexuality. The only thing we ever fought about was his future. I wanted him to become a businessman, like me, to take over the company one day. He wanted to go into human rights law.” He laughed shakily. “He always did get what he wanted in the end.”

Courfeyrac frowned, almost pouting, and he sounded dejected as he told Combeferre, “Man, I guess we’re back to square one, then.”

“Not quite,” Combeferre said quietly, looking carefully at Mr. Enjolras. “Mr. Enjolras, if you had no problems with Enjolras’s sexuality, why would he feel the need to ask for a ransom in order to run away with Grantaire?”

Mr. Enjolras shrugged. “Could be that he needed another source of income, separate from what he gets from me. The only real money I provide for him, at the moment, is a trust fund for his education expenses only. Once he graduates from law school and has a job, a secondary trust fund becomes his. But his only other income was in a different trust fund, from his maternal grandfather, which he was supposed to receive on his eighteenth birthday, but that money hasn’t been touched.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “Who’s the arbiter of that account?” At Combeferre’s surprised look, he scoffed, “I  _did_  go to law school, remember?”

“My wife, I suppose,” Mr. Enjolras said, surprised by the question. “She would have taken control of her father’s accounts after his death several years back.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanged a long glance before Combeferre asked slowly, “And how did your wife feel about your son’s sexuality?”

All three men just looked at each for a long moment before Mr. Enjolras sagged into the chair, his face ashen. “Surely…surely you don’t mean…” he whispered.

Courfeyrac told Combeferre softly, “Call the police. Tell them they’re looking for the wrong person, that it’s Mrs. Enjolras who shot her son.” He crossed to Mr. Enjolras and knelt down in front of him. “Did you have any idea what your wife was planning?”

Mr. Enjolras shook his head, his eyes filled with tears. “She always hated that about Enjolras. I always thought she would get over it in time, that she would realize that he’s our son and always will be. But I guess…I guess she couldn’t…”

His voice cracked, and Courfeyrac had to look away, not wanting to interrupt his moment of private grief. But then, surprisingly, Mr. Enjolras said, “I’m very glad you and Mr. Coombs were there to save my son. His memories of our home may not have been the best, but—”

Courfeyrac stood, suddenly, interrupting Mr. Enjolras mid-sentence. “That’s it,” he said, excitedly. “Memories.” He turned to Combeferre, who had just finished the call to the police. “I know where Grantaire is.”

* * *

 

“So tell me again why you think Grantaire is hiding out in some decrepit abandoned theatre?” Combeferre said dryly as he parked outside the building in question.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “It’s child’s play, really,” he said, impatiently. “Enjolras had an old ticket stub from this movie theater for  _The Last Airbender_  on his desk. That movie may in fact be the worst movie of all time, in case you’ve forgotten, and I still want my money back from seeing that thing, and I mean, really, it’s no wonder this theater shut down shortly after that movie. So why would you keep a ticket stub from a movie that bad? Because it was the first date you had with your boyfriend, four years ago, before you left for college.” He raised an eyebrow at Combeferre. “Don’t you see? They didn’t have a falling out at all. They started  _dating_ , and since Enjolras knew how his mom felt about all that, he told Grantaire not to come by anymore. Though why they’d resort to see this movie of all movies, I mean…” He shook his head. “Anyway, if my hunch is right, this is where Grantaire is hiding out, for the same reason — memories of the good times with Enjolras.”

Ten minutes later, they found Grantaire inside, next to a couple of empty bottles of whiskey and sleeping off what appeared to be a hell of a bender, and Combeferre sighed heavily. “Just once I would love it if your hunches  _didn’t_  turn out to be right.”

“You’re just jealous,” Courfeyrac told him easily, kneeling down next to Grantaire. “R? R, wake up.”

Grantaire groaned and rolled over. “Go away,” he muttered, his voice rough, as if he had spent the better part of the day crying, which given the events from earlier that day — though it was hard to believe it was the same day, that only fifteen hours earlier they had found Enjolras bleeding on the floor as Grantaire cradled him — was hardly surprising.

Courfeyrac shook Grantaire’s shoulder. “We’re here about Enjolras.”

Nothing could have woken Grantaire faster than that, and he sat up, blinking at Courfeyrac, his eyes wide and fearful. “Enjolras?” he whispered. “Is he…is he…”

Almost without meaning to, Courfeyrac reached out for Grantaire’s hand and squeezed it. “He’s alive,” Courfeyrac told him quietly. “He’s in the hospital but the doctors say that he should pull through without any major problems.”

Grantaire’s shoulders shook with silent sobs and he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, thank God,” he sobbed, his voice muffled. “Oh, thank god, I thought he was dead, I thought he was dead and that it was all my fault.”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Why would it be your fault?”

Grantaire didn’t even look up at him as he wiped the tears from his cheeks. “Because his fucking homophobic mother was aiming for me, and Enjolras saved my life by taking that bullet. God, I thought the police were going to arrest me, and I would have let them, because it was all my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Courfeyrac told him, his voice low and heated. “Enjolras is going to be fine, and he loves you. You know how I know that?  _The Last Airbender_. Enjolras kept his ticket stub from that movie, because he saw it with  _you_. Or at least I’m hoping that’s the case because otherwise I’m going to regret saving his life.”

Grantaire cracked a small smile. “That really was a shit movie,” he agreed. He looked from Courfeyrac to Combeferre for confirmation. “He’s really going to be alright?”

Combeferre nodded, firmly. “He really is. And if you’d like, we can take you to see him, now that the police are no longer after you — though I imagine they will have some questions for you, eventually.”

“And I’ll be glad to answer them,” Grantaire said, allowing Courfeyrac to pull him to his feet. “Just as long as Enjolras is going to be fine.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac took Grantaire to the hospital and to Enjolras’s room, though Grantaire paused in the doorway, looking from Enjolras, still in a coma, to Enjolras’s father, who stood when he saw Grantaire. For a long moment they just stared at each other, but then, hesitantly, Mr. Enjolras held out his hand for Grantaire to shake, which he did, and they sat together next to Enjolras.

Sighing, Courfeyrac rested his head against Combeferre’s shoulder as they watched from the doorway. “You did good today,” Combeferre told Courfeyrac, putting his arm around his shoulders in a friendly sort of way. “I’m as shocked as anyone by that fact, but there we are.”

“ _We_  did good today,” Courfeyrac corrected him. “You helped. More than helped, really. Now come on, let’s go look at the office space that I rented for our private detective agency.”

“You rented office space?” Combeferre practically yelped as Courfeyrac dragged him away. “Before we had even solved our first case?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “Well, technically,  _you_  rented office space, since it’s your name on the lease. I forged your signature, and did a pretty passing job if I do say so myself, so I hope you like it!”

He practically skipped out of the hospital to the sound of Combeferre growling, “I’m gonna kill you, Courf, I swear to God.”

* * *

 

Of course, he didn’t, and though Combeferre spent the next few weeks trying to convince Courfeyrac that this was a terrible idea that he really hadn’t thought through all the way, they nonetheless started working on other cases, both for the police department and for private citizens.

And a few weeks later, they were visited by their very first case, in the form of Enjolras and Grantaire, who came to see them. Grantaire supported Enjolras’s arm as he walked slowly, still recovering from his wound, but both their smiles were bright as Enjolras said, “We just wanted to stop by and thank you, again, for everything.”

“Also,” Grantaire said, like he couldn’t hold it in any longer, “because we got engaged!”

Though Enjolras rolled his eyes slightly, his expression was fond, and he kissed Grantaire’s temple before continuing, “Also, I’m deferring law school why I do my physical therapy and such in the area, so I’ve decided to start a social justice group, and I wanted to encourage you guys to come. Granted, I don’t know how to best utilize your talents, Courfeyrac, but I’m sure having a psychic on hand can’t hurt!”

It was Grantaire’s turn to roll his eyes. “Ah, yes, typical Enjolras — goes straight from engagement to social justice, as if they were equally important.”

“That’s because they  _are_  equally important,” Enjolras sniped, but judging by the looks on their faces, this was an old argument, well-worn and familiar, and Grantaire kissed him before turning back to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who were grinning at the exchange.

“Anyway, despite my boyfriend’s — wow,  _fiance_ now, isn’t it? That’s so weird! — despite my  _fiance’s_  social ineptitude, we really did just want to thank you, and wish you both the best in the future.” He winked at Combeferre, who looked confused more than anything. “You know, since everything is worked out between Enjolras and I, maybe you two will be able to figure out what’s between you as well.”

With that, Enjolras and Grantaire shook Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s hands, and then Grantaire helped Enjolras outside again, while Combeferre and Courfeyrac just stared at each other, confused and a little wary. Finally, Combeferre started, “Well that was a little, uh…”

“Weird, right?” Courfeyrac finished, grinning nervously at him. “I mean, uh, whatever.” He cleared his throat and looked away. “So do you want to go get ice cream or something?”

“Sure,” Combeferre said, then paused, his eyes widening as he flushed. “Wait, like, as a date? Because it’s not a date. I mean, unless it is a date. Or whatever. It doesn’t have to be if you don’t want it to be and—”

“Dude,” Courfeyrac interrupted, raising an eyebrow at him. “It’s just ice cream. Now c’mon.”

Combeferre nodded and took a deep breath. “Right. Just ice cream.”

And together, they walked out of their office, shoulders bumping together as they did, and if their fingers brushed against each other’s as well, and if Courfeyrac maybe grabbed Combeferre’s hand a little, well, at least there wasn’t a real psychic around to know about it.


End file.
